


Sickness

by BrokebackMountDoom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sickness, secrecy, third person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2796191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokebackMountDoom/pseuds/BrokebackMountDoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My friend gave me the prompt "Sherlock gets sick and John has to be his doctor" and this is what I came up with! Haven't written in a long time so it might not be perfect, but it's for fun! (Will be updated soon - suffering writer's block!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John collapsed on to the bed; his thighs quivered as he panted heavily. Sherlock remained between John’s legs and slowly leaned over him before collapsing with exhaustion. 

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John, whose heavy eyes gazed back up at him with adoration. Both men smiled and let out a gentle, quiet laugh as their noses brushed against each other. 

“Jesus. I love it when you do that,” John breathed.

Sherlock smiled. “Do what?”

“That thing with your tongue.”

“Oh, you mean this?” Sherlock traced his lips down John’s torso and headed towards the centre of his legs. John grabbed on to his shaggy curls and giggled at his tickling touch.

“That thing?”

“Yeah,” John chuckled. “That thing.”

Sherlock shifted off of John and settled himself next to him, resting in to the crook of John’s arm and resting his head of his chest. John curled his arm around to once again play with Sherlock’s hair, twisting his fingers around individual locks. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s forehead before relaxing his cheek against his head and closing his eyes.

“Yoohoo! Boys!” The upbeat tone of Mrs Hudson’s voice came flying in to earshot. “John! Sherlock!” The sound of footsteps made their way down the hallway and towards the bedroom.

“Shit.” John quickly unwrapped Sherlock from his hold.

“Shit. Move. Move!”

“Where?”

“Shit. Uhhh, side of the bed!”

“Sherlock, my clothes!”

Sherlock leaped out of the bed, scooped up the messy pile of assorted clothes and flung them across the room, some landing on John’s head. Sherlock then shooed John out of site as he got back in to bed and pretended to be asleep.

“Yoohoo, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson knocked twice on Sherlock’s bedroom door before letting herself in. 

“Oh, sorry, dear. I didn’t realise you were sleeping. Are you feeling all right? You look a bit pink.” Mrs Hudson put a hand to Sherlock’s forehead.

“Fine,” Sherlock groaned. “Just been…running.”

“Oh dear. You haven’t seen John anywhere, have you?” 

“Nope.” His tone acted as encouragement for her to leave.

“Not to worry. I’m sure I’ll catch up with him later. Oh, you’ve left your tea cup on the side!”

John shot his head up and could just about notice a tea cup on the dresser beside him and panicked. Any sudden movements to put clothes on would most definitely attract attention, but he’d rather that than have Mrs Hudson catch him naked as a baby hiding down the side of Sherlock’s bed.

“Leave it!” Sherlock snapped. “Experiment.” 

“Okay, then. I’ll leave you to it.” She walked out of the room and thankfully closed the door behind her.

Sherlock turned around to see John’s head emerging from the side of the bed. John let out a silent laugh and Sherlock joined in.

“That was close.” 

“Mmm.” 

John slowly crawled his way back on the bed towards Sherlock. Sherlock reached out and curled his fingers around his lover’s neck, drawing him in for a kiss. Jon straddled him and Sherlock gazed up at him adoringly, teasing his neck with the tip of his nose.

“How long do you think it’ll be before she figures it out?” 

“She already has.”

“We still have to tell her, though. And the others.”

John and Sherlock had been in an established ‘relationship’ for almost six months. An argument followed by Sherlock being pinned up against a wall followed by a kiss had been enough to convince them that they were foolish for thinking their relationship was purely platonic.


	2. Chapter 2

John strolled in to the living room from the shower in his bathrobe, rubbing the towel against his fluffy hair. Sherlock sat in his armchair looking through the countless messages on his website and groaned with frustration at the lack of an interesting case. So many messages from jealous husbands and wives suspecting their other half of having an affair, but nothing that got the cogs in his brilliant mind working. John was sat opposite on his own laptop typing away busily at his blog. 

“What you writing about?”

“How you made me come so hard that I saw stars,” John stated in a very casual tone.

“What?” Sherlock sounded alarmed.

“I’m joking, you silly sod.” John smirked as he continued typing.

“Oh.” 

“Nah. Just writing about the cannibal case. Still can’t quite believe it was the therapist.”

“Just goes to show that being professional doesn’t always mean being trustworthy.” 

“He planted someone’s ear down that poor guy’s throat, for crying out loud. Who the hell even does that?”

“Cannibals, apparently. Fancy dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, the thought of devouring another human being has really worked up an appetite. Where were you thinking?”

Sherlock stood up and made his way to the kitchen. “There’s a new place opened near-ah!” He put a hand on his stomach and supported himself against the sliding door to the kitchen as his face winced with discomfort. John’s head spun around.

“Sherlock? You all right?”

Sherlock straightened himself up and dismissed what had just happened. “I’m fine. Dinner at seven, then?” 

 

The two arrived at the new Italian restaurant owned by Sherlock’s old friend, Angelo. The restaurant sat discreetly in a road just off Oxford Street. It was charmingly small and not too busy. Sherlock and John sat by the window, like they did on their first case together. The lighting and music created a romantic atmosphere, as did the minor touch of a single tall candle placed on their table.

John was tucking in to his food while Sherlock was poking his around with a fork.

“What’s wrong? You’ve not eaten much.”

“Yeah. Not feeling too hungry.”

“Has this got anything to do with earlier?”

“Honestly, John, I’m fine.”

John shot him a frown then returned to his food. He tried his best to set aside the Doctor part of himself that would instantly start to examine Sherlock and interrogate him for other symptoms. But, like he said, it could be nothing.

“This is a really nice place, Sherlock.”

“Yes. I knew you’d like it.” Sherlock shifted his foot across the floor and started to rub it along the back of John’s ankle. John noticed what he was doing and gave him a mischievous grin as Sherlock’s expression remained still.

“What?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

John looked around to make sure no one was in earshot and leaned towards Sherlock. “Sherlock Holmes, are you playing footsie with me?”

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Sherlock looked John straight in the eye, his face sincere. John fought the urge to jump right in and kiss him. 

The secrecy of their relationship was exciting, but there were times when John wished they would just tell people. Mrs Hudson was as good as in on it and there was no doubt that Mycroft had figured it out, but to even just be able to tell Lestrade would be a weight lifted. But of course, that information would be passed on to others. They concealed their relationship not out of shame. They could never feel shame about it. They concealed it because of the attention it would attract. Focus would be centred more to their relationship and less on the work they do.

John lifted a hand and used his index finger to gently stroke under Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock lifted his hand and softly brushed the inside of John’s palm with his fingers. They broke off when a waitress came over to ask if they were enjoying their meal.

“Sherlock, I think we should tell someone.”

“What for?” Sherlock began to shift in his seat, looking a little flushed.

“Because I don’t like sneaking around. I mean, it’s exciting, but I want to actually be able to say ‘Hey, Sherlock and I are an item’.”

John continued with his reasons for wanting to be open about their relationship while, oblivious to him, Sherlock began to feel nauseous. He began to silently take deep breaths in an attempt to endure it, but the overwhelming sickness was too much to stomach. He violently escaped from his seat and darted for the door. John cut off as he watched Sherlock violently arch forward and vomit on the pavement.

“Shit. Sherlock!!” John shouted after him and rushed out of the door.

Outside, Sherlock was wiping his mouth with his sleeve. John sprinted to his side and placed a concerned hand on his shoulder, turning Sherlock around to face him. 

“Sherlock. Hey, come on.”

“It’s nothing.” Sherlock once again attempted to regain his posture and composure, but instead groaned in pain as he clutched at his stomach.

“No, it’s not nothing, Sherlock. I’m going to pay the bill and then I’m getting you home.”


	3. Chapter 3

John ushered Sherlock in to the front door of the flat. Sherlock refused to get a taxi home despite John’s insistence. This was probably a good thing as he’d vomited twice since leaving the restaurant. However, now he seemed to be back to his usual stubborn self. 

“Honestly, John, I don’t see what you’re so worried about,” said Sherlock as he slumped his coat on the sofa.

 

“Sorry, were you not just there? You…chundered all over the pavement. Here you go.” John handed Sherlock some water, but he refused it.

“It’ll pass.”

John’s concern for Sherlock’s health blended itself with irritation. He wanted to check him over but also felt like shouting at him for being so recklessly stubborn. John knew that whatever health related statement came out of his mouth next would be instantly dismissed, so he composed his temper and walked towards the bedroom.

“Getting an early night,” he called to Sherlock, sternly. He assumed his now frequent spot in Sherlock’s bed, but his concern invaded itself in to his sleep.

 

For the first time in almost a year John dreamt about the war. Blurred visions and sounds swamped his mind. 

A land mine explosion.

“We need a medic!”

“Watson!”

The sight of bleeding wounds.

“You’re okay. Keep your eyes open!”

“Am I going to die?”

“No, you’re not! Just stay with me!”

The sound of an exploding mine collided with that of a sudden thud that shook John in to consciousness. His body was sweating but the drumming of his heart began to slow itself down as he became aware of his comfortable and safe surroundings. 

John turned his head to see if he had caused Sherlock to stir, but was instead greeted with the sight of an empty space. He sat up and rubbed his heavy eyes before leaning over to turn on the lamp that sat on the bedside table. He hauled himself out of bed to investigate the source of the noise that had woken him. Maybe it was Sherlock tossing things around the living room again, he thought to himself.

John nonchalantly trudged through the flat, making his way to the living room to see what on earth had Sherlock up and about at three o’ clock in the morning this time. However, the living room remained just as intact as it was before they went to bed. Sherlock’s coat still flopped on the arm of the sofa and the glass of water still sat on the coffee table. 

On his way back to the bedroom John stopped by the bathroom and twisted the knob, but found it locked. He gently knocked twice on the door.

“Sherlock? Sherlock…are you okay?”

There was no reply from the bathroom. Suddenly, he heard the distinct sound of glass breaking harshly on the hard floor of the bathroom. John’s eyes widened and he began to furiously twist the doorknob and smack his hand on the door.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, open the bloody door, now!” 

John took a step back and fiercely lunged the side of his body in to the door. Five times he used all the effort he could muster in to forcing the door open. Eventually the door gave in and allowed John through. When he reached the shattered doorway he could see Sherlock laying helplessly on the floor hugging his knees to his chest, his head against the floor with his messy curls covering his face. John could see the smashed fragments of a glass scattered across the floor.

“Christ, Sherlock.” John rushed over and quickly dusted the glass away. He crouched down to Sherlock and brushed the hair out of his eyes and gently pulled his face in to view. He had never seen Sherlock more vulnerable.

Sherlock’s face screamed to John that he was in impossible pain. His face was flushed and his eyes were shut tight, but allowed room for desperate tears to escape. It was clear that he’d been sick again as there was residue of vomit on his chin. His mouth was open and his lips moved as if to call out, but no sound managed to leave. He lay in a very tight ball with his knees tucked up tight while allowing an arm to stretch over his abdomen and clutch it ferociously. 

“Shit. Right, let’s get you cleaned up.” John grabbed the nearest towel and wiped Sherlock’s mouth. He then placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and tried to get him to sit up.

“No!” Sherlock let out a tired shout before cowering in to a whisper. “No…no….”

“Sherlock, listen to me. I know you’re in pain. But I need you to try and sit up.”

“Just…leave me here, John.” 

John slid his arm under Sherlock and slowly brought him upright and sat him up against the bathtub.

“There you go. That wasn’t so bad. Now where does it hurt?”

“Right side.”

“Can you straighten you legs for me?”

Sherlock couldn’t muster the mental strength to argue slowly released his trembling legs with John helping to ease them away from his chest. His arm was still clutching his abdomen relentlessly.

“You’re going to hate me for this, but you need to let me have a look at you. Here.” John screwed up and the towel and placed it under Sherlock’s hand. “When you need to, grip this as hard as you can.”

Like with his legs, John carefully drew Sherlock’s arm away. John pressed his hands gently on his abdomen and could feel that it was inflamed. As he did so Sherlock gripped the towel tightly whilst gritting his teeth.

“Right, I’m pretty sure it’s your appendix.” John looked in to Sherlock’s exhausted eyes. “We need to get you to a hospital. Now.”


End file.
